Page 40 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
Woolwich watched him turn and go back into the ballroom. Nick may well take care of the problem with Goudge, but there was still the unsolvable problem of Clara, who was refusing his match.
CHAPTER20
Clara passed a sleepless night, uncomfortable in her own bed, her thoughts a jumble of regret and nerves that were eating her alive. High above her stretched a dark-patterned wallpaper of green leaves, lightening as dawn arrived. But still, despite closing her eyes tight, Clara had not found sleep. Her fingers drummed on the intricately decorated coverlet, twisting it this way and that until she was annoyed even with herself.
By most women’s standards, she was a fool—a grand duke had proposed to her, and she had turned him down. Even without the title, a great many females would think Jasper was divine. He was austere but appealing, wealthy, and added to that, he was heartbreakingly delicious to kiss, not to mention all the other wicked things he’d done to her body. On that subject, she was ruined, as he had so straightforwardly put it. If her disgrace got further than the two of them, it would make her one-time dalliance of playing at being a man in White’s seem innocent. This scandalous offense of being intimate with a man was enough to have her thrown forever from good society, no matter that her sister was a countess and her best friend a marchioness. No, Clara would be shunned. Of course, if she were to marry Woolwich, none of this need be her concern—she would be a duchess. Immune and untouchable, a distant image of herself appeared before her. If she were to agree to wed Woolwich, all the colour, the vivacity of her life, she feared, would be lost—she would love and love Jasper until there was nothing else left. And she knew he would not deign to care for her.
More than once, the thought of society, or her sister’s face when her ruination was discovered, had Clara composing a note to Woolwich internally.
Each time, she forced herself back beneath the sheets, pulling the thick cotton around her like a shield. There was no escape if she were to wed. It would condemn her to a lifetime of painful regret and remorse.
When her maid arrived with the breakfast tray, Clara asked for her help to dress. The younger girl tried to talk of the ball, but Clara could not think of an adequate reply. When the maid started on her hair, Clara remembered Woolwich’s caress, the careful feel of his fingers through her curls, and it brought tears to her eyes.
Clara picked at her breakfast tray and answered only in monosyllables. It was when there was a soft knock at the door and her sister, Isabel, arrived that Clara roused herself, despite her fears and tiredness.
Isabel moved through the chamber, smiling charmingly at the query from the maid and agreeing to an extra cup of chocolate. They were so different physically, of course, blonde to red curls, small versus tall, and curvaceous versus slim, yet Isabel was the only person in the world that Clara wished to confide in, the only woman who would give advice that would be a balm to her soul.
Before Clara could muster up the right words to explain things, Isabel, who had been watching the maid slip from the chamber, turned clear, tired eyes on her sister and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I hear the ball was not quite the outstanding success we might have hoped for.”
Clara moved, lifting herself out of the armchair, coming forward to sink down in front of Isabel’s seat. Tears flowed as she felt Isabel start to stroke her back, as she had done when she was a little girl confiding in her big sister.
“I do not believe the duke to be worth such sadness,” Isabel said after a minute.
Blinking up at her, Clara wondered if somehow the rumours were already circling, and her indecision had been pointless—she was already trapped.
“Hurstbourne spoke to me,” Isabel said, quickly seeing the rising panic in Clara. “He was informed last night by Woolwich of the duke’s offer.”
“The blaggard,” Clara said wetly. Hurt and anger raced through her as she felt the betrayal in Jasper’s actions. He had gone against what she assumed was an unspoken agreement of silence. He was manipulating her. Clara pictured his face smug as he issued out what he wanted. “He had no right.”
“My husband acted out of his best interests,” Isabel said with a knowing grin, teasing Clara by deliberately misunderstanding her. She leant forward in her seat as she looked at Clara closely. “I am still quite tired from the birth, so I may not be giving this my full attention. Or perhaps I have missed a crucial element. But nonetheless—”
Clara felt immediately like a scolded child, but when she opened her mouth, Isabel held up her hand, and Clara allowed her to finish speaking.
“However, I do not know it all, and I insisted that there must be a good reason—a very good reason—for your rejection of such a man.”
Before she could quite muster up her courage for an explanation, there was a slight cough, and both women glanced across to the earl as he entered the room. Hurstbourne was watching his wife with a deeply concerned look before moving forward and kissing Isabel’s hand.
Getting to her feet, Clara looked between the two of them. Awkward despite the fact they were both in her chamber, clearly wishing to resolve the matter as quickly as possible.
“I did not want to interrupt, but the doctor said you should be resting as much as you can. Besides, dear Robbie wanted to give you some roses from the flower garden.” Hurstbourne looked sympathetically towards Clara and then said, “If I had known what my friend would do, then I would have kept the two of you apart. But Woolwich is a wealthy, well-connected man who would ensure you want for nothing. On that point I am certain.”
“We all know that the duke can be cold and domineering, but he is one of the grandest matches of the Season. It would be a lofty marriage.”
“I see now, in hindsight, that his attentions toward you have been marked. I must have been blind beforehand to miss them.” Hurstbourne sounded bitter.
Was that why Jasper constantly sought her out to argue and bicker, Clara wondered, but she bit her lip at voicing that remark. “Before last night, I had no idea of how serious those intentions were,” Hurstbourne continued, “If I had known… I can only apologise for my lack of foresight. After Viola this Christmas, and the inevitable drama that her marriage has caused, let us hope that baby Eleanora causes no such scandal in twenty years.” This he whispered softly to his wife, and Clara had to look away at the gentle regard with which Hurstbourne was looking at his wife. With a sigh, he pressed a kiss against Isabel’s forehead.
“Provided she stays well away from the Set’s sons, I think we may count ourselves lucky,” Isabel replied.
Clara felt the embarrassment and shame of having her secrets known by these two people. Even ones who were so kind and well-intentioned as her sister and brother-in-law, it did not mitigate the mortification.
She was certain that, whilst Hurstbourne was a good man, if she refused both Woolwich and Mr. Goudge, there was only so much he would be able to manage in terms of her good name. Besides, the earl had other concerns. Exile from thetonwould be inevitable, and by extension, a great many of her friends and family would be cut off.
“I will not see you forced into a match,” Isabel said. Her graciousness illuminated her, and Clara knew all too well Isabel’s own prior marriage to Mr. Hall had been a hideously ill-matched affair. There was certainly no likelihood of Woolwich being a traitor or an abuser as Mr. Hall had been, but nonetheless, to lock herself into an unloving marriage was not a fate Clara would willingly choose.
“She may not have a choice,” Hurstbourne said. His face was pained as he spoke, a slight pinkness dancing over his cheekbones.
“Someone saw me?” Clara found her voice. She had been so careful returning from the conservatory and going back up the stairs last night.
